Death Bearing Fruits
by unknown men
Summary: When you accidentally kill yourself, do you still go to hell? OOC/AH/T for content; Wristcutters/Twilight crossover
1. Chapter 1

Death Bearing Fruits

When you accidentally kill yourself, do you still go to hell? OOC/AH/M for content; Wristcutters/Twilight crossover

EMMETT POV

_Maybe gold is silver,_

_And maybe we really eat liver._

When you think it's the end of the world, it really isn't. When you accidentally kill yourself, everyone thinks you did it on purpose. When you tell someone something, and you realize it's a mistake, maybe it isn't.

You see, when you try to heal yourself emotionally, and you can't help but cut yourself a little, people all of a sudden flip bitches, and you're 'depressed'. You know, when the girl you loved dies, you're scarred. For fucking life and death too, but shit doesn't count.

Listen, this chick was so cash. Brown fucking hair down to her goddamned ass, pert little pink nipples that got hard in three seconds, shit, I could beam my eyes at her and she was wet like a river. Face like a fucking angel, wide ass doe eyes, innocence was pouring from her looks. Her personality is what did it for me.

I forget her bouncy little ass, her tits the size of my palm, long ass hair that I can pull; her personality was a fucking shining beacon. Her laugh was as sexy as a Corvette, her jokes as raunchy as a strip club.

But she died. She died and is dead and till death did we part.

I feel like a fifteen year old chick, when I talk or think about her. I feel like a depressed asshole when I cut myself while chopping up some vegetables, and _liking_ the pain from the cut. The cut feels so good, in an otherwise death ray of hell that I want to rub salt over it, because fuck, _feeling_ is so damn good.

When she died, I was left to pick up her broken ass puzzle pieces. I was left to peel myself off the ground, and to avoid killing myself and "following her to the dark", because that's what pussies do. I'm not a pussy; I am so far from a pussy, that I have a twelve inch dick.

When you think about everything that's happened so far, I actually managed quite well. I didn't pull out her life insurance and spend it on boat's an' ho's. I spent it on her fucking _funeral,_ because _that's what I was supposed to do._ I don't resent her death; I just resent her reasons behind her death.

"_I know this will hurt you; I know you may wish I was never your wife. I know you may wish I was just back, so you could scream at me. But I love someone else." _Really? That's what her fucking note says, and next thing I know, I get a call from some police officer from fucking _Chicago_ and I find out she was in a car crash.

Really? Really? _Really_? That dumb, self-centered bitch, I fucking love her to death, and then she dies. Wow that sounded like an awful preface, sort of like "Life sucks, and then you die," but jeez, I'm not _that _emo.

All I can remember from my life is her. I don't remember much else; I've been here too long. It's all starting to curl away from me, making me forget stupid things like, what color my sister's eyes were, (by the way, I remembered later, and they were brown), or what my dad's name was (Carlisle), and even what my mother's mother's name was (I still have not remembered/figured that out).

It sucks, being here. People call this place "The Desert", "Suicide Café" and my personal favorite "Earth". I just call it "Here", because honestly Here is after There but before That. I know that this cannot be the end of it for me. I accidentally fall off my roof, die, and suddenly I am in this place where everyone tells me how they killed themselves.

I do not give a shit that you put meat on your hands and made dogs eat them, and bled to death. I do not care that you stuck your head under water and made it stay there. I could honestly, not give less of a shit that you're supposed to cut "down the road, not across the street". I don't give a shit about your fucking euphemisms, or why you killed yourself.

All I care about is finding out why everyone thinks I killed myself, and how the fuck I get out of here. I was just trying to fix my satellite, I wanted to watch ESPN!

People tell me to just accept it, and that this is "our hell" and we "came Here for a reason" and all that nonsense shit blahbity-blah. Honestly? This place is exactly like life was, maybe people are poorer, and maybe it's a desert, but fuck, it's got to be a shitty metaphor of sorts.

"Hey, Em. Why so glum?" Ben laughs his ass off; his laugh is actually really fucking disgusting. It sounds more like gasps for water, like the sound a fish would make. He drowned himself, so maybe it's expected.

"Hey, Ben. Why so ugly?" Then it's my turn to laugh, and I actually laugh. I laugh loud, from my toes to my stomach, and out of my mouth. I laugh so loudly, it's amazing that I haven't choked on my own tongue. I'm the only person here who can actually laugh, everyone else is too depressed, or they are acting as if this place is sacred.

"Dude, we got a new guy comin' in today," Ben says, knowing it will catch my interest.

"Oh?" I ask, because it's expected of me.

"Yup, his name is Edward, Edward Cullen," and then I see red. I can feel steam pool out of my ears, and I swear I just growled. I slam my hands down on the table, and then the door "Dings!" and I look up.

There is that smug-faced bastard that showed up to my dead wife's funeral, calling himself her savior. Telling me that she loved him more than I could possibly imagine, and before I know it, I am attacking him. My hands are around his throat and I'm banging his head down onto the floor.

"I hope I mess up your artfully-messy hair you fucking asshole! How does it feel, being dead! Did you kill yourself to follow her? I bet you fucking did!" I fluctuate between punching him, choking him, slamming his head down on the floor. All the while, I am wishing we were both alive so I could kill him.

He doesn't even try to fight me off, and then I let go. I mean, it's a crime to fight a man when he doesn't fight back. I get up with a huff, and leave. Tossing a "See ya later, cocksuckers," as I slam the door behind me.

* * *

When you travel 25 in a 5mph zone on Earth, you get a ticket, but Here? If you travel anymore than a 25 anywhere, people are on your ass like flies on shit.

* * *

After my episode at the convenience store, I quit. I sold my place, most of my clothes, almost all my food, and any other personal effects. I then worked at the junk yard, salvaging stray parts to build a car, and all the while checking out the hot blond that works in the metal part of the junk yard.

It's been a long time since I've died, new people tell me it's now the year 2010, and I died in 2001. I'm told about "the world trade center", "Barack Obama", "Antoine Dodson", and all sorts of stupid shit I couldn't care less about. Hell, some fucker thought I'd care about Michael Jackson's death.

Sure, okay, I cared a little. I mean, that fucker was smooth as a snake, and slithered his way out of many things, and his music is what chicks (namely my [ex] wife) liked to fuck to.

"Hey, look at Ms. Hot-tits over there, I heard how she finally killed herself," Eric Yorkie slithers up next to me, and is speaking in my ear, his greasy fucking hair is a mess, but, I'm intrigued. No one knows how she killed herself.

"Go on," I allow him to continue speaking to me; normally I'd smack his ugly 16-year-old face away from me.

"I heard she killed her husband and his friends, and his guard, and finally shot herself in the head," Eric states, rushing his words, making me try and pick apart his sentence.

"Guard?" I ask, because _damn, _if her husband needed a guard, he was probably a mob boss, or some shit.

"Yeah, I hear she saved him for last, and he hired a guard to protect himself," and Eric-The-Fucker-Yorkie laughs, he _laughs._

"Hell hath no fury, like a woman scorned," I say, as I start to strut my stuff Hottie's way.

If this was my ex-wife, I'd go up to her hot ass and smack it, but this is a new chick. I've never before been so attracted to someone in my life. Hottie is tall, her long hair is shorter than my ex-wife's, but her ass is bouncier looking, and her tits look bigger, like I could cup them around my dick and just fuck her tits. Her mouth, though? Fuck, the perfect proportion. I feel like a god damned pussy when I think about her, but damn, her mouth is perfect for dick sucking. She doesn't leak innocence, she leaks danger, hostility, and her looks make me think that she'd be a tornado in bed. God smite me if she isn't perfect.

"I jumped off my roof after my wife killed herself in a car crash."

END CHAPTER

* * *

It's a two-shot; two chapters for two POVs, just a head's up.


	2. Chapter 2

ROSALIE POV

* * *

I killed my husband. Well, he was actually my fiancé at the time, but no one really cares. I loved that man, I really did. I loved him enough to kill myself after I saw what I did, but he deserved it.

When I was sixteen, my mother made me take my father's lunch to him at work. It struck me as odd, but what did I care? I was getting out of the house. On my way to my father's work, many men whistled as they saw me pass, some even asked for my name.

I remember smiling demurely, and their raucous voices going "Tell me your name, beautiful!" and I remember blushing like a little embarrassed girl. I loved the attention, then. Not so much, now.

I was nineteen, when I died; I was seventeen when I got engaged.

* * *

"Rosalie, Rosalie!" His gasps are thick, his moans are heavy.

I don't feel, I don't think. I try to move my arms, my hands; I try to do something that can make me show a sign of anger, a sign of…a sign of something. "Rosalie! Rosalie!" I feel a smack on my face, my face rears back. My eyes close, and my lips twist again. I feel the other hands, holding me down.

I don't want to think, I don't want to feel.

_Kill me, God. Eliminate my life, please, kill me._

* * *

"Royce! Royce!" I'm smiling, tears streak my face, and my makeup must be a mess.

"Is that a yes?" He has a smile on his face; his gray eyes are bright, his brown curly hair is tight on his head.

"Of course I will marry you! Oh, this is the happiest day of my life," I stoop down, grab his face in my hands, and kiss him until my lips feel chapped, until my fingers are strained from holding him so long.

He gets off his knee and takes my glove off of my left hand, slipping the beautiful ring onto my finger. It fits perfectly.

"We're meant to be," I whisper in awe at the good sign we are given. I screech in happiness, bouncing onto my toes, pulling Royce down to kiss me.

He tastes like victory.

* * *

I briefly press my hand onto my stomach, smoothing my red dress down. Vera's little Henry is beautiful, but my little Royce & Rosalie's will be even more beautiful.

"Oh!" I cry, as he trips. I quickly go to his aid, but Vera stops me.

"It helps him learn," she whispers, watching her boy with her bright green eyes; he has her dimples.

* * *

"Where am I?"

"Why, my dear, you are Here," a tall lanky colored man is speaking. My distress must be apparent; I am wearing a bloodied dress. My skin is cool to the touch, my lip is quivering. I know what I did; I know what I thought, while I did it.

I do not regret it. My mouth sets in a hard line. I stand up, and I rip my dress off; I am here for a reason. I will make it function.

* * *

"How do you know she killed herself?" His green eyes and dimples are just like Henry's. His blond/brown hair is tight, straight, and short. He is tall, taller than me, he is muscled, and he is thick. He is beautiful.

"I met her after I killed myself," his voice is hushed, his face is almost pained, but it also seems resolved. I just met this tall man, but I feel like I have finally reached what I was meant to do Here. My hand reaches up, involuntarily, my hand smoothes his wrinkles. The same action I did to my red dress.

"I killed my husband, after he gang raped me," my voice is quiet, I am angry, my voice is angry, my eyes are screwed tightly. My companion is silent, his silence lets me continue.

"I was walking from my friend Vera McCarty's house, her husband was a carpenter; I had a passing fling with him," I say, reliving the whole moments, I remember kissing Vera quickly, and going to the kitchen to give her husband a more acceptable kiss, a kiss to cut the night in two, a kiss that ended with his hand up my dress. "I was not a harlot, but I wasn't entirely innocent."

* * *

"Goodnight Vera," a quick kiss on the cheek, "I left my scarf in the kitchen," I say, a steaming excuse.

"I'll put Henry to bed," she is unsuspecting, and she is genuine, happy, beautiful, but not as beautiful as me.

"Mr. McCarty," my voice is quiet; I stare at him, his hand is in his pants. He has no shame. I walk up to him and kiss him, moaning into the kiss. He pulls his hand away from his trousers, and trails it up into my dress, pressing into my delicious spot. I moan deeper, and kiss him harder. I want to lose my virginity to him.

"I think my fiancé knew about the fling, he certainly implied it, when he was raping me,"

* * *

"Rosalie! Look at my beautiful fiancée, she is such a fucking _whore," _Royce's voice is thick with slurring, his eyes are bloodshot, his hands are poised for attack. I find that I do not care; I just want to go home.

He grabs me, taunts me, and licks me. He kisses me, and throws me down, telling my friends that they better get hard soon, because they're all _having a go._

* * *

"I wanted to kill him, every second I felt pain, but most of all: I wanted to kill myself," I want to cry, I want to be teary-eyed, and I want to tell everyone else. "Royce was the gentlest, maybe he did love me, and was drunk enough to let his friends do what they wanted, but he was also the one that held down my head." I hear a sharp intake of breath, and large arms are suddenly holding me. I do not bat them away.

"I was raped in ways that still make me hurt; I wasn't just losing my virginity, they raped my mouth, my ass, my breasts; nothing was left untouched," and I am quickly shutting down. My emotions are starting to get the better of me, I throw the piece of shit in my hand, and I bite this man I barely know, and I start to heave.

I am startled when I feel hands on my back and a mouth at my ear. I shiver, but not from being scared; from being turned-on.

"My last name is McCarty," the words whisper, and I want to take him back to my room, and I want to lie with him in my bed, and I want to lose my virginity, _the right way._

* * *

"Her name was Isabella Marie Swan-McCarty, we married each other after a year of amazing sex, and even more conversations," his eyes are glittering, but there is also a sense of doom in his words. I am sad for this man. "She left me for a man named Edward Cullen, and I think she really did love him," and I know there is a silent _but._

"What happened?" I am silent, my hand is on his bare chest, his arm is around me, and his other is tweaking my nipple, touching my breast. But I must know this, before I fuck him again.

"I called her after I found the note; I let her know how much pain I was feeling. I might have been the reason behind her suicide," and he says it with finality. I know that he knows he is the reason. It is written on his face, in his hands, on his chest, it is written in his heart, and I feel it in my own heart.

"She told you that you were the reason."

"She told me almost immediately after I saw her, she smacked me, tried to cry, screamed, she did everything but tell me why she didn't stay alive for Edward."

"Edward killed himself, didn't he." It isn't a question, it is a statement, because I know Edward, and I know Isabella.

"No, and I think they are together." He whispers, and his eyes close tightly, and he pulls away, he is fixing his walls up, and I bite him again.

"Who gives a shit, we will find a way to live again; we will find a way to get over our stupid deaths. We are accidents, we were not meant to be with _Royce King or Isabella Marie Swan_ we were meant to be with someone else," and I silently put _each other_, because I know that I love this man.

"We _will _find a way to live again, I would give up everything, but life, if I could," and he opens his eyes, and they are filled with hope, and I gasp.

"To be able to bear children, taste, feel, love, cry," and I am whispering excitedly, and he is getting agitated and enthusiastic.

* * *

We have been on the road for more days than I can count. We have questioned many people; we have made love more times than we both have fingers and toes, combined.

If life was a puzzle, then we are the two missing puzzle pieces, and we will try to fit it all together.

* * *

**Parts of this story depressed me, parts of this story overjoyed me. I may continue it; I have an idea for Edward and Isabella, and Alice and Jasper. **

**Yes, no? **


End file.
